The Magic of Deduction
by Wunder-Katze
Summary: Sherlock's seven years at Hogwarts with the Marauders and young Snape, his choice to live in the muggle world afterwards, and his eventual return to Hogwarts, with John in tow, to help during the Battle. Rated T to be safe.
1. Chapter 1

CHAPTER ONE:

He was sent home with a note. A note and bloodied knuckles. Again. The sting of the cracked skin, oozing red where the splinters of the headmaster's yardstick had pulled away flesh, was not the worst part. The second punishment after his parents read yet another note was not the worst part. Not even the disappointment in their eyes. It was their words that hurt most. Eight. Little. Words.

"Why can't you be more like your brother?"

Perhaps just as bad was the brother.

"What did you do this time, stupid?" drawled Mycroft as Sherlock walked into their shared quarters.

Sherlock's face was clear, grim, and rimmed with pain. Mycroft didn't even have to exert his grey cells to deduce that his baby brother had made another mistake. Mycroft had no sympathy for mistakes. Especially mistakes made by relatives that were personally embarrassing to him and potentially harmful in his governmental ambitions.

"Why don't you just stay at Oxford?" Sherlock mumbled angrily, flopping onto his bed and turning away to stare at the peeling wallpaper.

"If you think I'm spending time with you because I wish to, you're delusional. I'm here because mum insisted I come home for Christmas. Then dad called, threatening to revoke my tuition if I had told mum no. I may have had to call her back after that."

"Tuition revoked? Kicked out of Oxford? That would be as terrible for me as it would be for you," Sherlock replied.

A few weeks with his older brother back home was better than his brother becoming a permanent fixture again.

Mycroft coughed then said, "you still haven't answered my question."

 _What did you do this time, stupid?_

"I didn't do my homework because it was pointless. I told a boy at lunch that I would prefer to sit by a cadaver during my meals rather than him; I then was compelled to explain what a cadaver was and he burst into tears. Then I showed the headmaster how he was completely wrong in botany class –if the class went on a nature hike, him leading us, we'd be dead of hemlock poisoning."

"I have no doubt you did not censor that last remark when correcting the headmaster?"

"No. Because it's true."

"Oh, right, I forgot what an honest, virtuous sibling I had. Explains why your knuckles look worse than usual. Listen, Sherlock, I made loads more corrections to the curriculum than you'll ever make, but I never got wrapped for it. I wonder why?"

"Because you're a suck up."

"Because I'm smart and you're not."

Before a brawl could break out, Mrs. Holmes called the boys down to supper. Sherlock wasn't allowed dessert of course, being a felon and all. His piece of cake was given to Mycroft. Sherlock didn't care. He wasn't hungry anyway. He slipped scraps of roast beef to his dog who was sitting under the table. Redbeard, the large Irish Setter, had his furry head in Sherlock's lap and was drooling.

As Redbeard's saliva accumulated, Sherlock wondered if it would look like he wet his trousers when he finally stood up. He found he didn't care about that either. He passed a bit of bread to Redbeard. The dog's tail thwacked happily against something under the table. It must have been Mycroft's leg because around a bite of cake he said,

"Stop it, mutt."

Sherlock shot a glare at his brother for calling Redbeard a mutt. Mycroft didn't seem to notice, or care. Finishing his cake, Mycroft stood, stacking his dishes in the kitchen sink and making sure to pile them largest to smallest.

"Going back up to your room already, Mikey?" Mrs. Holmes asked, obviously upset.

"I have so much homework, from _Oxford_ , you know, mother," Mycroft said as if words had turned to molasses.

"Oh, of course, dear. You must do your work. I'm so proud of my little Mikey-Wikey!" Mrs. Holmes cried, her voice now equally sugar coated.

"For goodness' sake call me Mycroft, that's what's written on the birth certificate," snapped Mycroft, all sugar gone from his voice.

The boys' mother tried not to look downcast as her eldest tromped up the stairs to his room.

"Sherlock…would you like a piece of cake?" asked Mrs. Holmes, never able to truly punish her sons; even when Mr. Holmes' eyes darted dangerously in her direction.

"No," said Sherlock.

Giving him cake because she felt bad. Feeling bad because a pang of guilt about calling Mycroft by his nickname reminded her of her guilt for punishing Sherlock. Even his _punishments_ were overshadowed by Mycroft.

Sherlock went up to the room, grabbed a coat, a scarf, and his skull.

"Where are you going, little prince? Your _mind palace?_ "

Mycroft's spiteful laughter followed Sherlock outside, Redbeard also tailing behind him. Sherlock hastily zipped up his coat and yanked the scarf into a tight knot around his neck. How easy it would be to pull it just a little more tightly…constrict the airflow…break the hyoid bone, crush the trachea…die. Even easier to put it around someone else's neck. Mycroft's thick neck, to be exact.

Sherlock sighed and loosened the scarf. He felt stupid, worthless even, but surely it'd be a waste to leave this earth at a mere ten years of age. No, he couldn't leave before his eleventh birthday at least. He may get a violin! The violin could carry him away on wings of song, instilling in Sherlock the will to live another day. The will to murder died too as Sherlock considered life in prison because of Mycroft. It wasn't worth it. He wouldn't give Mikey's ghost the satisfaction.

Sherlock laid down in the grass of his little backyard, setting the skull beside him. Redbeard snuggled against his master, his warmth negating the stark, winter cold. Mr. and Mrs. Holmes' voices broke through the chill air, begging Sherlock to come back inside. Sherlock lied and said he would after he was done stargazing.

If his parents really knew his mind, they would know he cared nothing for stargazing or galaxies. All needless information. But they wouldn't know his mind. Couldn't. Sherlock had decided not to let anyone see his mind again. Not after Mycroft had invaded his mind palace. He had filled in the cracks Mycroft had created. His mind palace was secure once again. Secure and secret.

Sherlock whispered to his skull and smiled.

"Do you remember when I found you in the graveyard, Scully?"

The skull stared back, blankly.

"Well, I remember. It was a cold day like today. I think you'd been buried a long time, considering what I've read about decomposition. My parents said it was too morbid for me to read, so, I don't have the book anymore and couldn't tell you exactly how long you've been dead. Redbeard dug you out of the dirt. My parents yelled and yelled at him, but then I took you home and hid you. By the time they saw you again they had forgotten about the graveyard incident and I told them I had gotten you from school –you were a prop for a play."

Scully sat.

"I enjoyed being in the school play. I like being the minor character. I get to dress up and no one recognizes me. I don't have to say anything –I can just observe the entire time. The other actors, or better yet, the audience. Maybe one day though I'll get the lead in Hamlet, and then I can get you on stage Scully, and _you_ can observe the people too."

The wind blew through Scully's sockets creating a low whistle.

Suddenly Sherlock, Scully, and Redbeard were bathed in a pool of light pouring from the neighbor's window. The head of a petite, mouse haired, nine year old girl passed in front of the light as she looked out into the night. As quickly as she had appeared she had whisked away. In moments she was climbing over the fence that segregated the yards.

"Hi, Sherlock! I thought I saw you out here," she said.

"Oh, hello, Molly," Sherlock replied.

Molly Hooper plopped down beside Sherlock, picking up Scully and wishing him a good evening as well. Then she wrapped her arms around Redbeard and scratched his ears. Redbeard went limp with pure contentment.

"What are you doing out here?" she inquired.

"Stargazing," he replied.

Molly looked skeptical, especially since Sherlock was on his stomach, but she laid down on her back and gazed at the stars. Sherlock narrowed his grey eyes and slowly shifted onto his back.

"There's Sirius, the dog star," pointed Molly. "It's part of Canis Major," she outlined the constellation with her finger. "You like that one, don't you Redbeard?"

Redbeard wagged his tail.

"So," said Molly when Sherlock remained silent. "How's the knuckles?"

Sherlock flexed his hands, causing the band-aids to expand, and shrugged. "All right."

"Still got the band-aids, I see. I told you Smurfs weren't so bad," Molly smiled. "Better than princess ones at least."

"Yeah, thanks," Sherlock said. He held his tongue instead of commenting on how unrealistic or how silly the little, printed Smurfs really were. Apparently it was crap telly Molly enjoyed on Saturdays. Sherlock didn't watch much television unless he heard words like "robbery, gunpoint," or "murder."

"You're morbid," Molly had told him once.

"You're the one who has frames full of dead butterflies in her room," Sherlock retorted.

"I didn't kill them, my father did. And it's scientific. You're just sick. My butterflies are still beautiful even though their dead, and my father got to unlock all of their secrets in his studies. The aerodynamics of each one's wing structure –how it flies, things like that. You…you don't understand, do you Sherlock?"

"No, I…I don't think I do. Why are butterflies important again?"

Molly had sighed and changed the subject, but she never stopped talking to Sherlock. Sherlock correctly supposed it was because he didn't run away screaming when Molly started talking about science and chemistry and the strange work of her father. Sometimes…sometimes he even listened.

He listened as Molly shrieked for him to focus on the night sky. He just caught a glimpse of the glimmering tail of a comet. He wasn't sure why, but he was glad he had seen it. He and Molly's breath clouded the air and unsaid words clouded their minds. A comet was just a dying star, and both were riveted by it. In one fashion or another, they were fixated on the idea of death.

"What's wrong with us Sherlock?" Molly whispered.

"Nothing. We just want to solve the greatest mystery of all time," he replied steadily.

Molly smiled at him. She patted Scully and Redbeard then got up, brushing herself off. The grass clippings fell away from her like faerie dust. She said she had better get back inside before she got into trouble. Sherlock stayed where he was and gazed up at the stars and galaxies until he could keep his eyes open no longer. A light covering of snow was his blanket that night.

When he woke up his lips were blue. His veins were blue. The sky was blue. Blue. The color of the world if he could have seen it from that dying comet.

The back door of the house creaked open just as Sherlock's eyes did. His mother's voice pierced the silence of the crisp morning air, harsh and worried. A steaming cup of tea was soon in his hand and Sherlock went to sit in the living room by the fireplace. Redbeard shivered loyally beside him. They both knew better than to take up space in the kitchen when Mrs. Holmes was preparing Christmas dinner. Sherlock blew his nose, suppressed his own shivering, and refused to tell anyone he had a fever. He wasn't about to let last night's stint in the cold be turned into an 'I told you so' moment –it had been so much more than that.

Though Mrs. Holmes' meal was, as always, superb –turkey, cranberry sauce, roasted chestnuts, hot cocoa, the usual winter fare –the event itself was cloaked in its usual grey drudgery, performed like a Russian funeral march. They knew it was really best to say little at all or else a row could break out and spoil Christmas completely.

"Sherlock, um," began Mrs. Holmes, "because of the nature of your gift, well, your father and I thought it had best count for both Christmas and your birthday. If they weren't so close together it would be different, but just the one pay check to spend on gifts this time of year, well, you understand dear."

Sherlock nodded. He didn't mind. He didn't get too attached to things anymore. Not after Mycroft had broken his Action Man and it was never replaced or successfully repaired. Sherlock had still played with the decapitated Action Man for a few weeks before gifting it to Redbeard instead.

"Well, Sherlock, it's up to you –do you want to open it now or your birthday?"

"Now should do just as well since I already know what it is. A violin, right?" he said, ripping the paper from the box.

His parents, after seven years experience with Mycroft before he came along, were quite to used to the fact that none of their gifts would be a surprise. They had almost learned not to be disappointed.

Sherlock unlocked the black, wooden case which held his new violin. He undid the latch and the box creaked open. He ran his fingertips over the caramel wood that bore a sunset sheen. It was worn and rough in some places –it had been owned before, obviously. Owned by a forgetful smoker with a missing left pinkie finger. Owned by this person for at least fifty years and played very regularly. Unfortunately this smoker died with a careless heir who had no ear for music. A tone deaf heir with a need for quick cash. All this and more Sherlock deduced from the new violin.

 _Your mine now,_ Sherlock thought as he caressed its neck and laid its body on his shoulder. The violin caressed his chin in return and succumbed easily to his bowing though he had never played before outside of his mind palace.

 _What will they deduce about me from you when I die and leave you to another?_ Sherlock wondered as he tested some notes. _Nothing, I'll bet. No one will be smart enough to,_ he replied to himself cynically.

The violin only sang and Sherlock forgot about dying and deducing. He forgot his brother and his sore knuckles. He was in a world far from here. A world that wasn't blue from far, far away. A world beyond even the serenity, seclusion, and safety of his mind palace. He was in "violin land."

His father's voice called him out of it.

"You like it then?" his father asked, a smile twitching on his lips.

"Yes," Sherlock replied. "Yes."

His parents saw the tears threatening to well up in their youngest son's eyes and felt it the biggest thank you they had ever received. Mycroft wasn't touched.

"Don't you dare practice while I'm trying to study or sleep, or play anywhere in my proximity. You sound like a dying animal."

A dying animal.

 _No, my violin and I are better than that_ , Sherlock thought. _We aren't dying. In fact, we are the only ones to know what it truly feels like to be alive._

For once in his life, for the first and last time in his life, Sherlock Holmes did not make a witty comeback. He let his violin do the work and let a perfect, high D trill into the air. A high D so beautiful no one could mistake it for a dying animal, only a songbird of a heavenly realm.

That silenced Mycroft. Though in the week following he made sure to critique Sherlock's amateur skill set. But Sherlock only played louder, deaf to his brother's taunts. Afraid Mycroft might vandalize his precious violin (he had once drawn a moustache on Scully and it had taken Sherlock hours to wash it off) Sherlock stored his violin in a different place each day. He was glad when Christmas break began to draw to a close. Mycroft would be going back to Oxford, and even though Sherlock too would resume classes, he would come home everyday to a violin that he could keep in his bedroom.

It was in the bedroom that Sherlock cracked open his eyes, bleary with sleep. His fever had broken a few days ago and for the first morning since he had caught the cold he could breathe through both nostrils. His grey orbs locked on the calendar beside his bed. With a soft sound like severed silk he tore away yesterday and let it float to the floor. January 6th took yesterday's place.

There was an envelope waiting for him at the breakfast table. Mrs. Holmes was at the stove, Mr. Holmes was setting out plates, and Mycroft was still trying to force himself out of bed.

 _Another birthday card from Grandma Vernet,_ Sherlock thought. Upon closer inspection, even the type of envelope was all wrong. In fact, glancing round the table, Sherlock saw the rest of the post and even the morning paper had not yet arrived. _Never theorize without all of the facts,_ Sherlock reprimanded himself.

He picked up the thick envelope adorned with green ink. Here is what is said:

 _Mr. S. Holmes_

 _729 Montague Street_

 _Soho, London_

 _Upper Bedroom, Bed on the Right_

There was no return address. If this wasn't from Grandma Vernet, who was it from? No one thought Sherlock worth the stamp on a birthday card but her. That wasn't true; maybe this singular sender thought him special.

 _Someone might think me special!_ thought Sherlock, his pulse quickening.

Aside from the obvious quality of the paper and ink, Sherlock was incapable of making a definitive deduction –something Mycroft had never failed to do since he was five (or so he claimed).

 _And here I am, ten –no! Eleven now! –years old and still making analytical mistakes! Idiot!_

There was no use dawdling. Sherlock slit the envelope with his finger. He winced as the paper sliced his finger in return. He stuck the injured phalange in his mouth. The iron tasting blood ran over his tongue. Quickly the sensation faded and when he drew his finger back from his lips the paper cut had faded away too.

Sherlock yanked the letter from the envelope's grasp.

An elaborate crest bearing the images of lion, eagle, badger, and serpent adorned the top along with these words in a bold script:

 _HOGWARTS SCHOOL OF WITCHCRAFT AND WIZARDRY_

 _Headmaster: Albus Dumbledore_

 _(Order of Merlin, First Class, Grand Sorc., Chf. Warlock, Supreme Mugwump, International Confed. of Wizards)_

The letter itself continued thus:

 _Dear Mr. Holmes,_

 _We are pleased to inform you that you have been accepted into Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Find enclosed the list of books and equipment you will need for your first year._

 _Term begins on the first of September. We await your owl by no later than 31 July._

 _Congratulations again, and happy birthday!_

 _Yours sincerely,_

 _Minerva McGonagall_

 _Deputy Headmistress_

"Bloody hell, I'm a wizard!" were the first words out of Sherlock's mouth.

"Sherlock, language!" his mother called over the sizzling bacon.

"What?" Mr. Holmes and Mycroft, who had finally tumbled out of bed, asked.

Mycroft looked disgusted with himself for following the same train of thought as their "boring" father. He blamed his sleepiness and quickly amended his statement to something suitably stinging.

"What, did you win a sweepstakes scam?"

The new statement was cynical enough, but Mycroft could not disguise the lines of concern sprouting from his furrowed brow –concern that something special had just happened to his brother.

"I'm going to s school of witchcraft and wizardry, I think!" Sherlock announced.

His parents snatched the letter from his clammy hands. His mother let the bacon burn. Mycroft took the opportunity to go outside for a secret rendezvous with a cigarette. (Sherlock's nose could distinguish the smoke of a Marlboro on Mycroft's coat apart from the bacon smoke, even if his parents' couldn't.) For the safety of his violin, Sherlock didn't tattle.

Sherlock's parents read the letter several times over before speaking.

"Is this…no, it can't be," breathed his mother.

"Even if it is, he's not going," said Sherlock's father.

"Not going!" cried Sherlock. "But I have to! I have to get out of here!"

"Get out of here?" drawled Mycroft. He was leaning in the doorway. Sherlock could smell the cigarette smoke. "What's wrong with here?"

"Everything!" Sherlock shouted, his pale face turning crimson with fury.

An owl, hitherto unnoticed, hooted. Wherever it had secreted itself before, it was now perched on the back of the chair where Sherlock usually sat at the table.

"How'd it get in here?" cried Mr. Holmes.

"None of the windows are open, I checked last night before bed," said Mycroft, whose o.c.d. was about to run rampant as the owl dropped a feather on the linoleum floor. He looked ready to banish the creature, or perhaps deep fry it and eat the drumsticks.

"It must have brought my letter! Flew down the chimney, by the look of the coal dust on its feathers. Owls are never out in the daytime," Sherlock added.

"Owls are nocturnal? I never would have guessed, Captain Obvious," Mycroft rolled his eyes. "But really? Coming down the chimney like Santa Claus? Grow up, stupid, and be logical for once. It's just a rabid bird who can't tell night from day. Must've gotten trapped in the garage and flew in behind us. I'll go call animal control," Mycroft said.

"You're insufferable!" cried Sherlock. "Can't you read? The letter said they will expect my owl –it's obviously their form of the postal system. And besides, we haven't gone through the garage this morning, and I think we, or at least _I,_ would have noticed an owl in the house if it were here overnight. Speaking of, it must have flown a great distance. Here," Sherlock said, turning to the tawny bird. His cheeks were burning as he gave it a morsel of cold, buttered toast. It chirruped happily and Sherlock felt the flushing in his face go down. This bird was tame. He wasn't crazy. Wizards were real –whenever you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth.

Sherlock went to the door and opened it. The owl preened itself, ruffled its feathers, dropping several more on the floor, and took off, whooshing past Sherlock and through the door. Sherlock watched it shrink into the distant, grey sky.


	2. Chapter 2

His letter was burned.

Sherlock didn't hear Mycroft steal into his room in the middle of the night, despite the elder brother's heavy tread. No, Mycroft knew how to be stealthy when he had to be. He had become quite professional at sneaking cookies from the kitchen in the wee hours of the morning. But that was neither here nor there.

The letter was there in his hands though. He stole down the steps to the living room, full of the plush, boring furniture his parents had had for decades. He knelt down by the fireplace, swiping the matchbox from its place on the mantel. The matches rattled as he slid it open and selected one for the task. He struck it quickly, and touched it to the letter covered in sprawling, green ink. At first it did not look like it would light, but suddenly the paper breathed in the flames and was gone. Mycroft threw it into the grate to curl into a defiled, burnt ball. He stood, his knees popping.

He replaced the matches on the mantel and looked at the framed picture propped next to the box. He and Sherlock looked about as photogenic as two dead fish. His parents smiled warmly from either side of the two boys. Two.

Mycroft looked down into the grate, the last ember dying as the letter could provide no more sustenance for its life.

"It's for your own good, brother mine. Believe it or not, I prefer you _in_ the family photo."

Then Mycroft stole a cookie and tip toed back to bed.

A snow storm passed over Soho that night, and a gust of wind whispered down the chimney. It carried away the ashes of the letter in its tendrils, the evidence of Mycroft's crime gone, but his sin found out.

The next morning Sherlock immediately noticed the letter missing from his sock drawer. Scully, however, was still nestled comfortably in the socks.

"Scully, you were supposed to guard my letter!" Sherlock reprimanded, trying to downplay his quickening heart rate and the lump rising in his throat.

 _It's lost! My letter is lost!_ He thought frantically.

How could he get into Hogwarts without the acceptance letter? Or remember what to buy from the checklist? Could he get a replacement letter? Or was he now blackballed as too irresponsible for magic school?

 _Can't even keep track of a bloody letter_ …

But he knew he had socked it away in that drawer. He knew he had.

"Mycroft," he growled.

Breakfast was frosty as usual. Quiet save for the crunching of cornflakes.

"You stole my letter," Sherlock said suddenly.

Mrs. Holmes nearly choked in surprise. Conversation. What a miracle.

"What letter?" Mycroft queried.

"My Hogwarts letter, the one saying that I was accepted to wizarding school," Sherlock replied, unwilling to play the game.

"Brother mine, I've no clue what words are coming out of your stupid mouth. Mum, Dad, do you know what he's talking about?" Mycroft asked, turning sappy.

"Not a clue," said Mrs. Holmes. "Is it some game you've made up, Sherl? A pretend game?"

"I don't pretend, I operate only with facts," Sherlock snapped at his mother, his temperature and his voice rising. "And it's a fact that Mycroft stole my letter, probably because he's jealous that _he isn't_ a wizard!"

"Careful with your tone, Sherlock," warned Mr. Holmes.

"Tone? Tell Mycroft to be careful where he sticks his grubby hands! He stole my letter! You all saw it yesterday! You're the ones pretending. It's not funny anymore. Is this some ploy to get me to do my homework? Fine. I'll do it. And I'll even give back Mycroft's stupid workout tape. Now can I have my letter back?"

Sherlock eyes were kindled as brightly as the blaze which had destroyed his letter.

"That's where my workout tape went–" Mycroft breathed indignantly.

"Sherl, we honestly don't know about any letter," said Mr. Holmes. "Please, stop this nonsense. It was a good story, but it's not funny anymore."

Sherlock didn't turn his fiery eyes on his father, but kept them steadily aimed at Mycroft. Sherlock stroked Redbeard absently and didn't touch his cereal again. Mycroft tried to ignore him or else stared icily back.

"Why don't you boys go outside and do something fun?" Mrs. Holmes suggested when it was apparent breakfast was over. "Build a snow fort or something. We've had a nice snow during the night, it seems."

The boys were shoved outside.

"Mycroft," Sherlock grunted, kicking the snow.

"What?" Mycroft snapped, vapor steaming from his mouth like a dragon.

"Why are they playing dumb? What did you do with my letter?"

"You aren't a wizard. That was a stupid prank and you fell for it, idiot," Mycroft laughed.

"You forget I've lived with you all eleven years of my wretched life. I can tell when you're lying," Sherlock said.

"Just hurry up and throw a snowball or something so mum will let us back in, I'm freezing my toes off," Mycroft said.

"I'm a more talented actor than you, and will make mum think we've had enough bonding time, _after_ you tell me what's going on," Sherlock said.

"All right, I'll tell you," Mycroft said, inflating himself several inches above his baby brother. "You aren't going to Hogwarts. That's it. That's all there is to it. You are to forget the whole business."

Sherlock didn't need any more encouragement to throw a snowball right at Mycroft's face.

"I don't understand," Sherlock growled as Mycroft brushed the snow from his stinging cheek. "We know the letter is real. What's with mum and dad thinking it's pretend? And when you tell me I'm not going, by whose authority are you saying that?"

"You never understand anything," sighed Mycroft ruefully, too lazy to make a rebuttal snowball. "Just…listen. You're life was fine before you saw the letter, wasn't it?"

"No."

"Well, it's no different now that it's gone, is it? Can't you just move on, Sherlock? That letter made no impact upon your life whatsoever except to make you delusional."

"My life was going to be different," Sherlock argued. "I was going to go to a special school away from _you_ , away from mum and dad…I was going to find people who understand me."

"Delusional, as I said. No one can understand you, Sherlock. You don't want to be understood. I know because I see myself in you –we thrive upon loneliness and intellect," Mycroft pointed out.

Sherlock remained silent, scowling at the crisp, sparkling snow.

"You're being quiet because you know I am right," Mycroft smirked.

"I can prove you wrong. I will prove you wrong when I go to Hogwarts," Sherlock said. "I'll find friends and show you that you don't know everything. Maybe there's more to life than being smart."

"There isn't. Except cigarettes. Give me one, mum's just walked away from the kitchen window," Mycroft said, elbowing Sherlock in the ribs.

Sherlock extracted Scully from his bulging coat pocket and emptied two cigarettes from Scully's eye sockets. Mycroft provided the light. The brothers lit up.

"Did you use those matches to burn my letter?" Sherlock enquired between puffs.

Mycroft looked at him askance.

"Just shut up about the letter. Shut up about Hogwarts. You don't know what you are talking about. If you knew anything, Sherlock, you would know to stay far away from magic," Mycroft said softly.

He dashed his cigarette into the snow and walked back inside, leaving his baby brother to ponder his words, and more importantly his surprisingly non-confrontational tone. And Sherlock _did_ ponder it. For the first time he realized Mycroft _wasn't_ jealous of his letter. He wasn't worried about his baby brother besting him. He was _afraid_ for Sherlock. But why?

There was only one way to find out –Sherlock would have to go to Hogwarts.

Sherlock dashed across the snow covered yard and shimmied up the fenced, dropping down into his neighbor's pristine yard. He proceeded to dash the frosting with his footprints. He rang the bell and asked for Molly Hooper. Soon Molly was being bundled up in a fluffy, pink coat by her mum with whispered instructions to be careful. Not of the snow and ice, but of the boy.

"If only she knew how much we actually hang out," Molly smirked at Sherlock as they tromped down the street.

"Why don't your parents like me?" Sherlock asked. He had never cared to ask before.

"It's not that they don't like you," Molly said. "You're just morbid sometimes. _Blatantly_ ," Molly added before Sherlock could tell her that she was morbid as well.

"That's it?" Sherlock asked.

"As far as I know. Why?" Molly wondered, kicking a pile of slush.

"I'm beginning to think there is more to the Holmes' past than my family has told me…" and Sherlock told her all about the letter, its disappearance, his parents suddenly playing dumb, and Mycroft's cryptic words.

"They're too smart, well, Mycroft is at any rate, to leave clues around the house. I just wondered since your parents have lived here for awhile if they might remember something from before you and I arrived on the scene," Sherlock finished.

"I've never heard them say anything about your family except that they don't understand how such nice people have sons like you and Mycroft," Molly shrugged. "I'm sorry I can't be of more help."

"Well, that was only my first question…" Sherlock said quietly.

"What do you need?" Molly asked.

The children took a few more steps and Sherlock's right foot hit a patch of black ice. He slipped before Molly grabbed his arm and steadied him.

"You," he breathed, the word crystallizing in the winter morning.

Over the winter and spring and summer months Molly discovered what Sherlock needed her to do. He needed her to integrate him into her family so that he might get a ride in their car to King's Cross Station on the first of September. He needed to be her best friend so that he could go shopping with them throughout London, the Hoopers looking for groceries and things while he looked for "The Leaky Cauldron" and "Flourish and Blotts." He covered a lot of London ground on foot on his own, of course, but he could only skip so many days of class, or be absent from home so long before his family became suspicious or worried. Taking Redbeard didn't make them feel any better.

"London isn't safe at night, Sherl, or anytime for a lone child," his mother chided, picking him and his dog up from the side of the road one summer evening. She had been called out of work because of another 'Sherlock sighting' from a co-worker. "What were you even doing here, sweetheart? You weren't buying drugs or anything?" Mrs. Holmes whispered, her voice laced with deep concern.

"No, I was just out for a walk," Sherlock said.

"Well, this is a very bad area. Don't ever let me catch you wandering around London alone again!" she scolded.

Sherlock made no promises.

The only thing he said that night was, "I'm going to Molly's house for a sleepover. Redbeard is coming. Don't expect us for breakfast."

"Oh, well, do you need a sleeping bag?" Mrs. Holmes asked.

Sherlock hated to admit it, but his mother had a good point. "Yes."

"Well, there should be one in the attic. Oh, we haven't gone camping in _ages_. The weather is still decent, wouldn't it be lovely if we planned a little trip later this week?" she proposed to Mr. Holmes.

Sherlock did not wait to hear the reply. He plodded up the stairs and into the hallway, fetching a stepstool and torch from the tiny closet. He mounted the stepstool, and balancing on his toes, opened the attic door. Dust rained down along with the ladder. Torch in hand, Sherlock climbed the ladder and soon found himself draped in cobwebs. It was sweltering amongst the rafters, and spiders skittered away from Sherlock's light. He curled his lip. There was a reason no one came up here.

Nevertheless, he soon found the sleeping bag, dropping it through the hole in the ceiling so it bounced down the hallway, nearly tripping Mycroft who had come upstairs to go to bed.

"I ought to lock you in there," Mycroft sneered up at his little brother.

"That would be fine, I like it up here, away from _you_ ," Sherlock shot back. He retreated into the darkness with the spiders until Mycroft got tired of hurling insults up at him. He let the torch light play over all the dusty, long forgotten items. Suddenly, something shimmered beneath the dust in a far corner of the attic.

At first glance it looked like an old cooking pot, but no, it was more archaic than that. A cauldron? Sherlock mused. There was stack of books inside, and Sherlock immediately recognized some titles from his Hogwarts supplies list.

His grey eyes widened.

His family _definitely_ knew about Hogwarts, and probably more than he did.

There wasn't time to be rankled or investigate though.

It was the evening of August 31st.

"Sherlock," Molly said, opening the door of her house. "Come in! I've already made the popcorn, and I have some movies we can watch!"

Sherlock nodded his greeting to Mr. and Mrs. Hooper, smiling as he did so. They smiled back. It wasn't as suspicious a look as they used to give him, more pity filled now, as if they knew Molly was his only friend.

While the Hoopers chattered away in the next room, Sherlock and Molly whispered under the chatter of the telly.

"I asked my parents if we could go to King's Cross tomorrow, or rather, a restaurant near it for brunch. Less suspicious, right?" Molly said.

"Very satisfactory," Sherlock breathed. "From the restaurant I can dash over to King's Cross myself. I'm taking Redbeard as my animal. Scully is coming too," Sherlock said, unzipping his duffle bag to show Molly his miscellaneous supplies.

"Did you ever find the actual wizarding things?" Molly asked seeing only a toothbrush, toothpaste, and granola bars beside Scully.

"I never did find 'The Leaky Cauldron,'" Sherlock admitted ruefully, "But it turns out I didn't need to. All of the supplies I needed were in the attic. There was a pewter cauldron stacked with nearly all the books I need, some quills, and a wand."

"What? Really? Are you sure it isn't just costume props?" Molly gasped.

"I'm sure. When I picked up the wand…well, it was the strangest sensation. I just know it's the real thing. Someone in my family went, or was planning on going, to Hogwarts," Sherlock murmured.

"But you don't know? Didn't you confront them about it?" Molly asked incredulously.

"No! It was too risky. If I started asking about Hogwarts even my lame brain parents might catch on that I haven't let the subject go. And if they jump to that conclusion then they'd know I've made plans to go tomorrow, " Sherlock said.

"Yeah, that's true," Molly sighed. "It's crazy how many secrets can be concealed in the smallest of families."

"Hmm," Sherlock agreed.

"So…" Molly breathed after a long pause. "Can I see the cauldron and wizard stuff?"

"I've got it in your car already."

"But our car was locked."

"Volkswagens have the easiest locks to pick. Don't worry, I locked it again when I was through," Sherlock said nonchalantly.

Molly shook her head. They both fell silent as the clock struck midnight.

September 1st.

Neither of the children slept, and though the telly remained lit the entire night, neither of them watched it, either. Sherlock was in his mind palace, already exploring the new opportunities magic could offer him. For just a few hours he let his mind wander through fantasies…dreams that he found a place where he belonged. Dreams that he found a place where he was happy.

Molly's thoughts did not stretch out into the future but lingered in the past. She dreaded tomorrow, September first, just as passionately as Sherlock longed for it. She finally had found a purpose with Sherlock, someone who needed her. What would she do when he was gone?

"Sherlock," she whispered. "I…I know we became close friends this summer so you could go to Hogwarts, but…it wasn't just an act. I mean, for me, that is. I really do consider you a friend, you know."

"Oh," Sherlock murmured, still in the halls of his mind palace. "That's nice."

Escaping from brunch was easy; Sherlock had even managed to scarf down a scone and spot of tea before departing.

Finding Platform 9 ¾ was more difficult. Which is saying something considering the deductive powers of the child who stood there staring at platforms 9 and 10.

 _It must be somewhere in between them…_ he reasoned. He stood back and did what any good detective does best: _observe._

There! A red-haired girl with a covered bird cage and a dark haired boy with a bundle of books. A hoot resonated from the cage, and Sherlock caught a glimpse of the title of one of the books: _Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them by Newt Scamander._

 _These wizards are rather conspicuous…_ Sherlock thought. He watched them closely, observing every footfall for a pattern, every gesture for sign of a special signal. Everything about their movement was natural, save that they disappeared into the brick wall between platforms 9 and 10.

"Just…walk into it?" Sherlock wondered. He was about to walk toward it when a businessman with a suitcase cut him off. He leaned himself and his suitcase up against the wall as he paused to light a cigarette. Sherlock had two thoughts:

1\. Why isn't he falling through the barrier

2\. I wonder if I could get a cigarette from him

Sherlock would not find the answer to his first question right away, but he pick pocketed the answer to his second: a resounding yes.

Cigarette safely stowed away, Sherlock nervously put his own hand up to the brick wall. His fingers disappeared. He glanced over his shoulder.

"Come on, Redbeard," he clicked his tongue.

Boy and dog walked through together. How clever to create a barrier that could distinguish between wizards and non-magic peoples! Suddenly the boy and his dog were standing in front of the magnificent Hogwarts Express, a sleek, steam (or rather magic) powered locomotive. A clock was just chiming the hour.

"Last call, all aboard!" cried the conductor.

Sherlock and Redbeard scampered into one of the last cars as the train lurched out of the station. There were two people in the car, the girl and the boy who had unknowingly taught Sherlock how to get there.

Sherlock awkwardly took a seat as far from them as possible, Redbeard laying at his feet.

After several moments of silence the girl piped up,

"My name is Lily, Lily Evans. And this is Severus Snape. It's good to meet you."

"The name's Sherlock Holmes," Sherlock said.

The Snape boy said nothing, but relied upon Lily for his words.

Conversation was difficult at first, but Sherlock remembered that these were finally people with whom he belonged, so, he made an effort to be cordial. Which meant actually replying to enquiries.

He and Lily talked about where they were from and the days they received their letters. Lily talked about her ill tempered sister, and Sherlock talked about stupid Mycroft. Neither of them talked about life at regular school, though Sherlock found himself dropping Molly's name rather often. He didn't realize she would be such a big part of his narrative, but it was imperative to mention her. He wouldn't be on this train without her. With a pang he realized he never thanked her.

Lily told Snape's story for him. Sherlock could have guessed most of the facts, and that they were friends before today, but he listened politely. Snape didn't interject anything into Lily's narrative of him. Sherlock wondered if Snape was mute.

Lily started describing Diagon Alley and the day she and Snape bought their school supplies. When she saw Sherlock's blank stare she said,

"Haven't you been?"

"No."

"Where did you get your school supplies?"

"I found most of what I needed in the attic. Apparently someone else in my family was a wizard, or a wizard lived in our house before we moved in," Sherlock said.

"Fascinating!" said Lily. "You know, people debate whether magic runs in the family. I'm a witch, but my sister Petunia isn't. Sev's family is divided too, his mum's a witch but his dad's a muggle."

"Muggle, as in, someone without magic," Sherlock deduced.

"Exactly."

"I think both of my parents are muggles, and I'm sure my brother Mycroft is… But my grandmother is a relative of Vernet the French artist. Art in the blood manifests itself in the strangest of forms, so, perhaps that is where I got my magic from," Sherlock mused.

"Yes, I suppose magic _is_ a sort of art," Lily smiled. "Wouldn't you say Sev?"

Snape nodded, his lank, black hair obscuring his face, save for his hooked nose.

Just then a witch came by with a trolley full of candies and delicacies. She began to enquire if any of the children wanted anything, but before she even finished making the offer, Redbeard helped himself to some licorice snaps.

Luckily the witch was a good humored soul and chuckled about it all the way down the line to the next car. Lily began to laugh as Redbeard licked his chops. Sherlock laughed too, and then, so did Snape. Redbeard barked and the friendships were cemented.

As the train slowed Sherlock heard people talking about the Sorting Ceremony.

"I hope we're all in the same house!" cried Lily, throwing on her robe.

Sherlock was suddenly aware he did not have a robe.

"Um, here," said Snape. "It's not a robe, but at least it's black," he handed Sherlock a jumper from his worn carpet bag.

"Thanks," said Sherlock, pulling it on. It smelled like herbs.

They got off the train into the throng of students on the platform. With Lily momentarily out of earshot Sherlock said to Snape, "You should ask her out."

"Oh, I couldn't…she would never…wait, how did you know I even…" he stuttered.

"The magic of deduction, my dear Snape," grinned Sherlock. "And I think she would say yes, given some time."

Snape smiled back. "Thanks, Sherlock. Um, I second what Lily said, I hope we're all in the same house."

"Yeah, me too," Sherlock said.

Lily had found her way back to them at this point. She was smiling at the dark haired boys.

"Oh, just say you'll be friends already!" she clasped her hands eagerly.

In unison the boys shot back helplessly, "I don't have friends!"

They stared at each other.

"I...I suppose we could be friends?" Snape said. He stuck out his hand, his black eyes peeping cautiously through his greasy hair. Sherlock took the boy's hand and said, "friends."

They both took a deep breath of relief. Making friends was grueling.

"By the way, _what is_ the Sorting Ceremony?" Sherlock asked.

Before Snape or Lily could answer, a middle-aged witch with black hair and dazzling green eyes called all of the first years together. Whatever the Sorting Ceremony was, the witch, Professor McGonagall, said it was about to begin…


End file.
